When a girl like Vivian Sternwood walks into your third floor bachelor
pad that doubles as your at-home laptop repair business as advertised
on Craigslist, it can only mean trouble. It would be a hot one that
day, a real summer scorcher—not even noon, and already I felt
like a boiled New England dinner simmering in a sea of electronics.

“What can I do for you, sweetheart? Take a seat,” I said.

She was a doozy of a dame, with dangerous eyes like blue screens of
death and a dark umber HP Pavilion laptop with a 640 GB hard drive she’d
dropped off the day before. I’d taken her case at the recommendation
of her father, the landlord, on account of my being two months behind
on the rent.

“I am here to pick up my laptop that would not start up. Why
else would I be here?” she said, cell phone buzzing in her purse.
“And I am in a rush. Make it snappy.”